of the shiny instrument, and a purple flash caught Mariel's little
finger. Mariel jerked and squealed with pain. "Speak up," said Shandor.
"I didn't hear you."

"Probably about the bonds," Mariel whimpered. His face was ashen, and he
eyed Prex with undisguised pleading. "Look, tell him to put that thing
away--"

Shandor grinned without humor. "You don't like scalders, eh? Get a big
enough dose, and you're dead, Mariel--but I guess you know that, don't
you? Think about it. But don't think too long. What about the bonds?"

"Ingersoll has been trying to get Dartmouth Bearing Corporation on legal
grounds for years. Something about the government bonds they held,
bought during the China wars. You know, surplus profits--Dartmouth
Bearing could beat the taxes by buying bonds. Harry Dartmouth thought
Ingersoll's files had some legal dope against them--he was afraid you'd
try to make trouble for the company--"

"So he hired his little pixie, eh? Seems to me you'd have enough on your
hands editing that rag--"

Mariel shot him an injured look. "'_Fighting World_' has the second
largest magazine circulation in the country. It's a good magazine."

"It's a warmonger propaganda rag," snapped Shandor. He glared at the
little man. "What's your relation to Ingersoll?"

"I hated his guts. He was carrying his lily-livered pacifism right to
the White House, and I couldn't see it. So I fought him every inch of
the way. I'll fight what he stands for now he's dead--"

Shandor's eyes narrowed. "That was a mistake, Mariel. You weren't
supposed to know he is dead." He walked over to the little man, whose
face was a shade whiter yet. "Funny," said Shandor quietly. "You say you
hated him, but I didn't get that impression at all."

Mariel's eyes opened wide. "What do you mean?"

"Everything you wrote for PIB seems to have treated him kindly."

A shadow of deep concern crossed Mariel's face, as though for the first
time he found himself in deep water. "PIB told me what to write, and I
wrote it. You know how they work."

"Yes, I know how they work. I also know that most of your writing, while
you were doing Public Information Board work, was never ordered by PIB.
Ever hear of Ben Chamberlain, Mariel? Or Frank Eberhardt? Or Jon
Harding? Ever hear of them, Mariel?" Shandor's voice cut sharply through
the room. "Ben Chamberlain wrote for every large circulation magazine in
the country, after the Chinese war. Frank Eberhardt was the man behin